


should the coin have been flipped—

by quwinto



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2803814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quwinto/pseuds/quwinto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>—things would have been much changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Silver-Tipped Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> The AU no one asked for: Tybalt is a Montague and Mercutio is a Capulet.

Tybalt Montague was always grinning. It never was a true smile; perhaps that was the tragedy. Or perhaps the tragedy was that people thought he was always smiling.   
Either way, Tybalt was always grinning. Whether at a joke or his friend's antics or from adrenaline in one of Verona's infamous town-wide brawls, he always had a grin plastered on his face. Occasionally it slipped away, mostly when he wasn't speaking. His expression would turn bitter and dark and everyone who saw it would shiver from the sour look on the Montague's face. But the look was always gone in seconds, replaced with a dazzling grin that made people who saw the expression shake themselves and laugh, thinking they had only imagined the momentary shift in Tybalt's demeanor.

Tybalt tended to speak quickly as if his ideas were so flitting and changing that if he did not spit them out the second they crossed his mind he would lose them. Romeo and Benvolio could usually keep up, but when their cousin went on one of his infamous rants about something absurd like faeries’ midwives or the horrible fallibility of love, they simply laughed and told him to calm down.

So Tybalt would bite his tongue and laugh along with them, pushing down the bouts of madness that spurred such outbursts, forcing himself to say, “Yes, Romeo, I jest, I do.” If only his words were sincere.

Romeo always laughs at the bitter grin curling around his lips and hooks an arm around his neck, pulling him along, out of the street and into the light of the lamps. He lets himself be dragged away from the dark. The metaphor they don't see suits him.

Montagues are known for their sharp tongues, and Tybalt is the wittiest of the family. Razor sharp jests fly off his tongue and anything softer tumbles from his lips with much less certainty. They say that all he knows is the taste of stinging insults and wine; which is probably true. The taste of kind words do not sit easily in Tybalt's mouth unless they are twisted into a joking manner. This leaves him with only Romeo and Benvolio who enjoy his company for long periods of time; not a shame in his opinion. They are the only two Montagues he can stand and they do not try to forcibly gentle him through his manic episodes. They wait until the emotion has subsided from his face before speaking in soft tones and Tybalt paints the grin on his face again and commands, “Onward, lusty gentlemen!” Perhaps he is too harsh when he berates others or he does not mean half the things he says but at least, at the very least, he has his friends. And he grins with them through the night.  



	2. And a Bloodied One

Mercutio Capulet is a name very few invoke in fear of inadvertently drawing the whirlwind in human skin to their side. He seethes with hate and anger and it settles over his shoulders and fists, bunching them together in preparation for an attack. The cousin of Juliet, he defends her fiercely and they are each other's closest friends. She claims to see a gentle side of Mercutio, but no one else can see what she does. She gentles him through his outbursts, tells him she cherishes his company and loves him regardless. Most only see the flash of the steel of Mercutio's dagger or the blood on his knuckles; Juliet sees a boy broken by hate. Mercutio tells himself that he is not broken, that he is a good Capulet, that he does not falter in the face of a Montague or death, that he will bloody his knuckles and sword a thousand times over before he falls, just like his father wanted.

Mercutio is a Capulet, born from hate, steeped in the anger that all Capulets pass on to their sons. Continue the feud; kill as many as Montagues as you can, my son. Mercutio follows this duty, his mouth twisted into a frown each day. He hates the Montagues and their forked tongues, the way they fight like cowards, with words rather than blades. He wants to rip the tongues out if their deceptive throats.

Mercutio Capulet is a product of hate. His father carved the emotion onto Mercutio's heart, thrust blades into his hands and shoved him into battles with Montagues, lest he gain some semblance of empathy for anyone other than his fellow Capulets. Mercutio follows the unspoken code to the letter, only interacting with Montagues in brawls and provoking them into throwing the first punches. He relishes in the feeling of blood dripping from his mouth and sits still as Juliet bandages his knuckles. The cycle begins anew.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Tybalt remembers growing up in Verona, chasing his cousins through the streets, skirting around Capulet territory, shoving each other over the invisible boundary that separated the houses.

He would trip Romeo over the line, making him fall into Capulet territory and laugh then extend his hand to pick him up and Romeo would pull him down while Benvolio laughed until a shadow loomed over them. Whether it belonged to a Capulet or Montague, the three still scrambled away as quickly as possible, laughing through panted breaths.

 

Today, Tybalt hides from Romeo and Benvolio, determined to explore the sycamore grove on his own. They eventually stop calling his name and leave him in peace.

He strolls under the large trees until he reaches the edge of what he knew to be Capulet territory, and steps across the boundary, darting from tree to tree as if there were Capulets in the grove.

And there were. There was one solitary figure in the grove, about Tybalt's size.

He scrambles up a tree as quietly as possible and waits in the branches for the other person to walk close enough that he could scare them.

It was Mercutio, the cousin of Juliet, walking alone. Tybalt hangs from his knees and calls in a sing-song voice,

"Why do you tromp alone, dearest Capulet?" He sees Mercutio jump in surprise and quickly school his expression back to a hardened neutral. He smiles, pleased with his results.

"Truly, Mercutio, wherefore art thou solitary? Where is your cousin? Your father? Your mother?" He watches Mercutio's mouth twist into a frown.

"Wherefore art thou on my family's lands? Wherefore art thou solitary? Did you friends tire of your idiocy and abandon you?"

His frown morphs into a mocking smile and Tybalt swings back up to lie on the tree branch.

"Nay, dear Mercutio. I grew tired of _their_ worrying and strayed into this territory on my own, free of their fear." Mercutio snorts and Tybalt smiles, continuing.

"I doubt anyone could tire of my charm and wit. Everyone is endeared by it."

"You forget that I am not."

"Of course you aren't, dear Mercutio, which is why you are smiling at me." The smile drops from the teen's face and Tybalt mourns the loss.

"Will you join me? It is quite comfortable up here," He calls down. Mercutio glances around and flicks his eyes up to Tybalt lounging above him.

"I'm quite comfortable with my feet on the ground."

"Scared; I see. No shame in admitting it and no worry: I won't tell anyone," Tybalt taunts, hoping he'll take the bait.

"You know nothing of me, Montague!" He did. Tybalt smiles.

"Of course I don't. My apologies, dear Mercutio. Do join me." He watches Mercutio stew below him, weighing his options. And then he walks toward the tree and begins climbing. Mercutio sits in a branch a few feet away, his arms crossed, and scowling, occasionally glancing at the ground perhaps five or six meters away.

They stay in the tree until dusk, the unspoken truce hanging between them. Tybalt drops out of the branches at the sound of Mercutio’s name being called and looks up at the other teen and waves.

"See you tomorrow, dearest enemy?"

"If you feel that you must annoy me for two days straight."

"Tomorrow, then!" Tybalt crows and runs off while Mercutio is climbing down, hiding a grin to himself.

He strolls out of the forest and at the dinner table, smiling wide in triumph at having sucessfully cajoled a Capulet into doing what he wishes.

Romeo and Benvolio berate him with questions about where he spent the day hiding and he shakes his head, unwilling to tell his secrets.


	4. Chapter 4

Now, years later, Tybalt still enjoys this game, tugging Mercutio as far as he can, pushing him to the precipice of his murderous limit. He runs, knowing the Capulet will follow. They grapple with each other, Tybalt more in tune with the game but Mercutio is always no more than a step behind, pushing and pulling just as hard. They fall into each other’s step easily, too easily for hard-hearted enemies. Tybalt is fire that makes the steel of Mercutio malleable under his hands. He finds it easy to influence his decisions when they are together and delights in the game he's playing.

 

Tybalt laughs (that is to say, Tybalt never truly laughs; his laughter comes in short, mocking barks, harsh and cruel, just like himself) in Mercutio’s face during the next town brawl, daring him to strike. Mercutio, dagger drawn (the prince, what a fool, a peace-wanting fool, has banned citizens from carrying rapiers in town) bares his teeth. He and Tybalt are something less than friends, something more than just enemies. Tybalt dances around him, as if the ground scorches his feet, laughing, goading, practically begging Mercutio make a move.

Mercutio obliges, grabbing Tybalt's hair and slamming a knee into his stomach.

Tybalt gasps in a breath and grabs Mercutio's leg, pulling the Capulet off balance. They both fall, and Tybalt rolls away to stand again as Mercutio scrambles to his feet, scowling in response to the manic grin decorating Tybalt's face.

The Montague rushes forward, ducking under Mercutio's fists to grab his collar and swing him face-first into the nearest wall. Mercutio sucks a breath in, tasting blood and grimacing as Tybalt shoves him harder. He does not see the Montague's gleeful expression.

He steels himself and lashes out with his unpinned hand, grabbing hair he knows to he dark and curly and drags Tybalt's head backwards. Tybalt hisses but does not release his hold until Mercutio lifts his foot to smash his heel into Tybalt's knee and sends him staggering back.

Blood runs down Mercutio's chin and stains his collar as the Capulet begins to advance. He stops, seeing Tybalt's dagger out and glinting threateningly in the sunlight.

Montagues are more fond of wordplay than swordplay but Mercutio cannot afford to underestimate his opponent. Tybalt's mocking tone punches through Mercutio's strategizing.

"Afraid I'll get the best of you again, my dear cat prince?" Tybalt taunts, an edge of something Mercutio cannot place in his voice. He feints in response, flipping the knife in his hand and catches Tybalt's dodge.

He slams the hilt into Tybalt’s stomach, catching him halfway through a breath. Tybalt struggles to breathe in the instant that Mercutio kicks his legs out from under him and the Montague falls. His head hits the cobblestone and he sees stars surrounding Mercutio's face in the moment before everything goes dark.

Mercutio has a knee on his adversary’s chest and his hand in Tybalt’s hair and the other at his throat, dagger pressing into the skin there when he realizes that the Montague’s eyes are closed and the fingers holding the hair are getting sticky with what can only be blood.

His hands release automatically and Tybalt’s head falls back against the road as Mercutio stands and takes quick steps backward, sheathing his dagger, trying not to vomit.

He looks up and down the street for any others, but they must have dispersed to other streets, unwilling to be caught brawling.

Mercutio debates options as Tybalt lays unresponsive at his feet, wondering how long it will be before someone finds them. He feels strangely guilty at the thought of leaving his adversary to possibly die on the stones, despite the everyday threats they throw back and forth.

He takes a breath and steels himself, then crouches down to grab Tybalt’s doublet and lifts him into his shoulder. He weighs less than Mercutio expected; his short frame looks well-muscled but he is surprisingly light. Idly, Mercutio wonders how often Tybalt eats.

He slips through the alleys, a Capulet holding a Montague, each baring their family's colors, blue and red standing out and complementing each other.

Mercutio ducks into the public hospital, hoping the nurses won't say anything to his parents about this. One nurse tells him to follow and he silently puts Tybalt down on the bed she indicates. He leaves as she begins checking Tybalt's wounds, without telling her who she is or who he is.

He hopes the nurse will not remember enough about him to tell Tybalt who brought him in.

He gets home and is questioned by his uncle about the blood on his face, which he wipes off immediately, the stain blending with the red of his shirtsleeve. He spares it a distasteful glance and bitterly slinks to his bedchamber, opening all the windows and throwing off his bloodstained clothes to rid himself of any memories he can.

He attends dinner with his uncle, his aunt, and his dear cousin Juliet but refuses to speak of what happened earlier.

 

Tybalt wakes in the hospital days later, with no warning. He opens his eyes, just as suddenly as they had closed days ago, and sits up.

He notes the clean sheets and touches his head, feeling a bandage wrapped around it, covering the back of his head.

A nurse enters the large room, focussed on the basin of water in her hands. She looks up and sees him getting out of bed.

She puts the bowl down and is by his side in an instant, mutter a prayer and reaching out a hand to help.

Tybalt pushes it away with gentleness he has to force himself to use. He flashes her a smile, all teeth and no sincerity (isn't that how he's always been?) and stands for the first time in—he doesn't know how long.

He licks his lips and clears his throat, unused to the feeling of a throat that hasn’t spoken, he always spits poison and fire every second, this feeling is strange and foreign and he does not like it at all, at all.

“Tell me how long I’ve been asleep,” he says, phrasing it as a demand but he tempers his tone into making it sound like a request.

“Four days.” She says it like she was worried, but all her hopes are gone. His mouth twists, unbidden. This information does not worry him. It does not affect him at all, curiously.

He looks down at his arms and legs and tries to process the fact that he lay asleep for four whole days from one hit on the cobblestones in the street. He has sustained much deeper wounds from knives, and yet a rock was almost his undoing.

“Four days.” She nods and bows her head, as if his lack of a response makes her nervous. As if she knows exactly who he is and his manic tendencies. As if this lack of jest or wit shocks her, as if she has known him from infancy to manhood, and she knows this is uncharacteristic of Tybalt Montague, the boy who would sooner choke on his own words or swallow fire than be silent. This casual sense of kinship sets a fire of anger in his chest and throat for reasons he doesn't know or understand. He has to get out or the sparks will burn everything around him.

He leaves the hospital soon after, the smell of sickness and the dying making his empty stomach turn. He thanks the nurse, pressing as many coins as he can find in his doublet into her hands. She tries to refuse, to say this is a public hospital, but he shakes his head harder each time and forces his smile just a bit wider and tries to make his eyes soften.

(He is unsuccessful at the last one, but she understands and finally slips the money into her apron. Days later he sees her giving the money out to beggars on the streets but he pretends not to recognize her.)

He steps out into the air and does not know where he going, but still he walks, his feet guiding him through Verona in sure, steady steps down the road that nearly killed him.

He sees a familiar dark head of hair and grins, his eyes finally lighting up in accordance with the mirth twisting his mouth. He speeds his step until he can fall into Mercutio's, the grin still painting his features into a mocking caricature of delight.


	5. Chapter 5

Mercutio avoids the hospital the days after he spilled his greatest and worst adversary’s blood. He dares not ask if Tybalt has died yet. He avoids the Montagues too, their worried flurry in search of their eldest nephew. He sneers at any he comes across but he does not seek conflict, for the guilt would make his hands shake if he admitted that it was his fault. He will not allow himself to admit he’s the one to blame if Tybalt dies.

Perhaps it is best that he took Tybalt to the hospital. No one would think to look for the Montague there; he is famous for walking out of brawls drenched in blood, his eyes burning bright and his teeth arranged in a grin, and straight into a new diatribe that will spark another fight.

He left no names for the nurses either, so they cannot know them. Or so he thinks as he prays at night.

Mercutio does not hope, but he prays, like all good Capulets do.

He clutches at his rosary even know, normally it sits hidden under his collar, hitting against his chest with each step taken, a constant reminder of the horrors that await him after death if he does not repent and pray daily.

Tybalt slings an arm around Mercutio’s shoulder and practically sings, “My dear princely Capulet! Where have you been while I was sleeping?”

Mercutio starts in surprise, shaking him off easily and swings around to face Tybalt. He sweeps his eyes across his adversary, grinning, arms crossed, exuding confidence and belligerence, and most of all, alive. The Montague looks mostly the same as five days ago, his grin still antagonizing, no new scars, no visible permanent damage.

Tybalt scowls, his demeanor changing quickly from playful and annoying to angry as he waits, impatient for a reaction. Mercutio says nothing, his eyes dead and his body defensive.

Tybalt opens his mouth again, stepping closer and clasping his hands together in a mockery of pleading hope.

“Why so quiet?” Tybalt croons during Mercutio's silent perusal; “Did you miss me?” He asks, his mouth twisting into a fake grin around the words, knowing they’re bound to get a rise out of the Capulet.

Mercutio frowns and crosses his arms in response, his resolve not to fight the Montague just after finding him alive in spite of his own actions already fraying.

“Now I understand why I knew I would regret taking you to the hospital,” he says, and immediately bites his tongue.

Tybalt’s eyes widen at this information and his mouth opens, still grinning, his canines looking sharper than usual in the sunlight.

The Capulet grits his teeth and steels himself for the oncoming verbal assault.

Tybalt wants to laugh and scream at the same time. This is the best thing he’s ever heard. Mercutio is not a cruel, cold-blooded Capulet after all. He dragged Tybalt’s half-dead body to the hospital.

The idea gives him a headrush of interest and joy? No, pleasure. Mercutio didn’t want him to die in the street. And he didn’t just bring him to an alley to rot, he brought him to somewhere he had a chance of living.

Tybalt’s heart speeds its cadence in response to his excitement. He leans forward and strikes.

“Did you try to kiss me awake, my prince? Did you sit by my bloodstained body each waking hour and pray, O God,that I would wake? Did you beg my limp body to breathe again?” He half-teases, half-hoping what he says is true, reaching out to Mercutio, who steps back to avoid his grasping hands, a wary look on his features.

Tybalt sees this reaction and narrows his eyes and the smile drops from his face. He speaks again, this time his voice is cold as ice, his mouth biting out syllables.

“Or did you leave me there to die? Did you pray no one would find me? Did you toss me there like an already dead body and never return? Did you pay the nurses to not tell anyone I was there? I bet you did, you filthy, deceiving, bloody Capulet,” he hisses, beyond angry and furious now. He pulls his dagger from its sheath, the slick _shhhnk_ sound of metal on metal boils his blood further and he pursues Mercutio faster, pressing him into a building, the knife at his throat.

“You could’ve left me in the street. but no, someone would’ve seen and taken me to my home. They would’ve cared for me. You left me with nameless women, probably giving them instructions to neglect me. You never thought I’d live, did you Mercutio? You hoped I’d die quietly and be buried, nameless, with no one to mark my grave or say a prayer in my name. You disgust me.” Tybalt presses the flat of the blade into Mercutio’s neck, the other pulling his hair, his leg keeping the Capulet pinned against the smooth marble.

“What did you do to me?” Tybalt demands, practically snarling. Mercutio has never seen such a drastic and fast change in demeanor in the Montague. Tybalt has always been joking and never serious, never truly furious as he is now, never dark and wild-eyed like this. It scares him.

“Answer me, cat prince, or I’ll spill your words onto the street with my knife. They’ll mingle with the stain my blood left,” Tybalt says, baring his teeth, ready to follow through on his threat. Mercutio has never seen Tybalt kill a man, but he suspects, in this state, the Montague would have little hesitation or conscience.

Mercutio does not offer an answer. Instead, he knees Tybalt in the stomach and grabs his wrists, spinning and holding the smaller man away from his body. He digs his nails into Tybalt’s wrists, meeting murderous eyes. The Montague looks like he could eat Mercutio alive if he wanted to. He squeezes harder and the dagger clatters to the ground.

Mercutio lets go of his adversary’s wrists to take a few steps back as Tybalt picks up the knife. He spins on his heel to leave as he feels hands on the back of his doublet.

He turns back and Tybalt is right behind him, looking at him with a steady, determined stare.

“Why did you bring me to the hospital?” He asks lowly, as if someone might hear. Mercutio wonders this himself again for a few moments. The answer leaves his mouth unbidden.

“You didn’t deserve to die yet, or so unfairly,” he says. Tybalt’s face contorts into confusion and then understanding as he processes the sentence.

Mercutio shakes himself free of the Montague’s grip and starts walking. He’s stopped once more as Tybalt slides in front of him, face to face. He looks almost angry again, but placid on the surface.

“You say I didn’t deserve to die, but what do you know? What do you know of my sins? Of anyone’s sins but your own, Mercutio Capulet? What do you know of me that I do not?” He looks like he’s grappling with something inside himself. The struggle fades from his face and he locks eyes with Mercutio again, fire once again burning inside him.

He turns and stalks out the alley, leaving Mercutio to ponder exactly what happened. He wonders if anything will change.

There is a small part of him, possibly, perhaps, maybe hoping that things will be different. He doesn’t know what he wants to be different or how, but he knows part of him wants change.


	6. Chapter 6

Tybalt drags his feet home and slinks in the door, disappointed. He manages to avoid servants and family until he's gripping on the door handle of his room. Tybalt hears the sound of footfalls up the stairs, his head whipping up and looking around before he wrenches open his door to slip inside and click the door shut as quietly as possible, desiring the peace and solitude to mope and submerge himself in his own anger and disappointment.

He mulls over the events of the day, frowning over his interaction with Mercutio. He does not admit that the Capulet is his favorite person in Verona, his predictable unpredictability having always made him an entertaining and interesting adversary.

Today though, the unpredictability became Tybalt's enemy as the pattern of reaction deviated and confused him.

Tybalt sheds his doublet and shirt in annoyance, kicking off his boots and pulling out his dagger from its sheath to flip it in his hands, an idle, habitual movement not many have seen him indulge in. He enjoys the movement while his mind turns over the interaction piece by piece, examining every word, every sight, every reaction.

A useless exercise, he knows, but it's an indulgence, a way to savor his fleeting passes with Mercutio Capulet. He might be infatuated, or obsessed. And he will admit that. But he will also insist that the opposite is true.

Mercutio is obsessed with him.

Or so he hopes.

 

Mercutio circles Verona twice, telling himself he is not searching for the Montague, that their encounter two days ago did not upset him, that he just wants a to pick a fight to shake the unsolicited anxiety from his chest. He curls his hands into fists at his sides and sets his jaw in defiant refusal to acknowledge the unlabelled emotion making room in his ribcage.

He stops at the center of town, the market square, and sits on the fountain, watching the busy shoppers scoot from stall to stall to buy produce and meat. Vendors shout out their wares, the freshness, the prices, anything to entice another customer. He sits, indifferent to the life around him.

 

Tybalt has been batting away the concerned hands of his family for two days, insisting that he was just too busy to return home for a few days. Romeo gives up easily, knowing Tybalt to be secretive and violent when pushed too far, but Benvolio nudges further, just barely, just enough that it irks Tybalt and he stands in the middle of the conversation and leaves the inn.

Who cares if he hates his cousins for the moment? Family is not as important as Verona believes. Tybalt sees a familiar figure through the stalls in the marketplace, the perfect area to hide in plain sight.

He weaves through busy crowds, the height of summer nearly upon them, the sun blazing down upon Verona oppressively.

He grins, excitement grabbing hold of his core as he threads his way through the crowded street to the fountain that overlooks the whole scene. His whole body thrums and shakes with unknown energy as he approaches, his grin cracking wider as he stands to the side, waiting for Mercutio to notice his presence.

Mercutio suffers in the blazing heat, and he doesn't even know why. What is he waiting for? He should leave. Crowds agitate him. He stands and glances to his sides just as a voice breaks into his reality.

"Enjoying your rest, dear Capulet? Are you getting old?" Tybalt teases, stepping closer.

Mercutio's head whips around to make eye contact and Tybalt's mood soars. Oh, to have the full attention of your greatest... He ponders what he and Mercutio have become, before abandoning the thought and focusing back on Mercutio, whose expression has soured in the small space of time it took for him to realize Tybalt's presence.

"What do you want, Montague?" he says, his voice stiff and much too cold for the bright summer air. Tybalt pouts visibly, and moves another step closer so he is almost at the Capulet's side.

"Is it so wrong for one man to seek out the one who saved his life? Such a crime that I dare find you just because I felt I wanted to? I cannot not have an ulterior motive?" He crosses his hands over his heart, playing the part of a shocked damsel.

"You _wound_ me, my lovely cat prince," he says, his mouth curling around the phrase, always one to laugh at his own jokes.

Mercutio flinches at that, carefully suppressed guilt rolling through him and making his stomach turn. He grimaces and averts his eyes from the Montague, trying not to remember how Tybalt looked when he had blacked out. He was so lifeless and empty, so unlike himself that Mercutio doubts he will ever forget it.

Tybalt notices the change in demeanor and the smile slowly drops from his face as he sees the bunching in Mercutio's shoulders.

"What, cat prince? Did I hurt you? Have my words finally become stronger than your dagger?" He asks, stepping another pace closer, nearly closing the distance between them. They are face to face now, Mercutio's eyes averted and Tybalt focussed directly on the Capulet.

"Did you really care that I nearly died?" He scoffs."I thought you would've been rejoicing."

"As always, you prove that you know nothing, Montague," Mercutio manages, trying to inject seething rage into his words but they come out lifeless and flat, dulled by the whetting edge of his guilt. Tybalt switches pace hearing the tone of the insult.

"Enlighten me then, dear Capulet. Tell me what I have yet to learn about the open book that is my cat prince," he says, his voice belying seriousness. Mercutio swings his gaze up to Tybalt's, meeting brown eyes blazing with sincerity, completely devoid of their usual spark of mirth. He looks away again and pushes past the Montague, leaving the market without another word.

Tybalt watches him leave.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha sorry for the wait i literally wrote this in one day so sorry if there are any mistakes

Tybalt is caught in clashing riptides of his own emotions. At one end, he is furious, angry beyond belief with how easily Mercutio brushed him aside, his inner instincts screaming for the attention he craves. The other current is confusion, a fear that Mercutio does not care, or perhaps a deeper feeling of bafflement at the notion of the Capulet, his enemy, caring for him. He wants to scream, to tear at something and hear it rip, to claw at his skin until it is bloody and raw and he can comfortably climb out of the mortal prison he's in. He settles for a near-scalding bath instead, scrubbing at his skin until it turns red and threatens to tear.

 

Mercutio is in a similar state, wild thoughts running through his head, wondering what he truly feels. His feet carry him through the town without the interference of his thoughts, his body disconnected from his mind. He paces through the town until the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky with purples, pinks, oranges, and reds. He doesn’t look at the sky.

He studies the whorls in the wood of the tavern door under his fingertips instead as he pushes it open and walks inside.

 

The inside of the tavern is dark, so comfortingly dark that Mercutio can breathe a little easier, can slip into the shadows a bit more smoothly. He tries not to make eye contact with anyone, blocking out any sound other than the woman asking him if he would like anything to drink. He manages to say whiskey without choking or looking up and she’s gone. He settles into his chair further and closes his eyes, letting the sounds and sensations blur together and swirl around in his brain.

 

Hours earlier, his skin still a faded red in some places hidden by his shirt, Tybalt laughs with his cousins, vicious and tireless, doubled over, his eyes squeezed shut as he howls with his best friends. They are a whirlwind together, cutting off each other’s words and tripping over each other in their eagerness to speak. Tybalt, Romeo, and Benvolio seem like they cannot let go of one another when they are together; their hands constantly pulling each other closer or clasping each other’s and touching foreheads together to whisper obscenities and wrench away again shaking with laughter only to be pulled back into orbit by the other two planets, their skin singing into the night with the simple pleasure of loving one’s friends.

“Truly dear Tybalt,” Romeo says breathlessly, a laugh having just ended but still shaking his shoulders, “Truly, tell your dearest cousins where you went. We missed you so dearly! We worried so deeply!” Tybalt is grinning again as Romeo clasps one of his cousin’s hands in both of his, bringing it close to his chest, Benvolio just a step behind, his arm linked through Tybalt’s. Tybalt just tips his head back and laughs before leaning into Romeo and beckoning Benvolio closer. He whispers nonsense to them, weaving a tale of angels and stumbling nearly into hell and the great adventures he took. He spills dreams off his tongue until Romeo and Benvolio lean away, satisfied for the moment. They smile and Tybalt can tell that they will ask again more seriously tomorrow. He pulls back too, trying not to grind his teeth in response to the flare of frustration he feels in his chest and forces the smile back onto his face, but he can feel the mood is less light, less easy. They sweep through the town, Tybalt trying to detach himself from the previous moment, his skin itching with the need to be scrubbed clean of the imagined black filth left on his skin by guilt and anger.

 

Benvolio suggests a drink and Romeo is too eager to agree, pulling both cousins by the hands to a small tavern on the outskirts of Verona, pushing to door open and leaving Benvolio and Tybalt to choose a table to order wine for all of them. Tybalt watches Romeo shmooze with the waitress and scoffs, flatly moving his eyes across the small room. He catches sight of a familiar slumped set of shoulders and he can feel his lips curl into a mockery of a smile, his delight unseen by Benvolio who is watching Romeo. Tybalt keeps quiet about his discovery and turns his attention back to his cousins and their merriment. He does not mention that he feels like an imposter in his own skin, just outside of their reach and never fully with his fellow Montagues.

 

Throughout the night, Tybalt keeps glancing at the dark curls across the tavern, sliding his eyes across the rim of his wine glass each time Romeo and Benvolio take their eyes off of his. He feels like this is a betrayal, like he should be thinking of his cousins, but all he can remember is the pleasure of teasing and the tension in the shared bloodlust whenever he and Mercutio clash. The Capulet’s head is on the bar, obviously having drank too much. Tybalt slides his eyes back to Romeo and Benvolio, the pair laughing and clasping each other’s shoulders in merriment. Tybalt smiles at the sight, glad that his cousins love each other so earnestly.

  
Mercutio drinks until he cannot stand to lift the glass anymore. He hates Verona, he hates the Prince, he hates the feud, he hates himself, the hates the Montagues, and, of course, he hates Tybalt the most. He’s the worst, the most tricky, the most dodgy, the most sublime, and the most dangerous. He runs circles around Mercutio’s brain and winds himself around the Capulet’s thoughts, a string encircling his mind. Whether or not Mercutio is alone, Tybalt is always there, in his subconscious, laughing and teasing and making his blood boil. Mercutio puts his head down on the counter, willing the images of Tybalt to leave him as he grips his own hair, burying his fingers in the curls and tugging, hoping the pain will make him forget about the Montague for at least a moment.

 

Romeo and Benvolio have finally had their fill and Tybalt smiles as they stand, laughing and extending their hands to him.

“Let us return home, dear cousin,” Benvolio says to Tybalt, one hand on Romeo’s arm and the other reaching toward the other man, still sat at the table. Tybalt laughs and shakes his head.

“Go on without me, fair gentlemen. I fear I must rest here until the night ends,” Tybalt says, knowing that to the wine-steeped brains of his friends, this will sound like a perfectly reasonable excuse.

“Of course, dear cousin,” Romeo bows jokingly, and flashes a grin at Tybalt and the pair exits the tavern, letting the door swing closed behind them. Tybalt stays motionless for a few moments, letting the quietness of being alone fill his senses until he is sure they won’t return and drag him home. He finishes his wine quickly and stands, only slightly off balance and pleasantly tipsy. He weaves his way around table to settle next to Mercutio silently. The Capulet does nothing to indicate he’s aware of Tybalt’s presence so he leans his head close to Mercutio’s ear, debating what to say. He has to be careful, everyone knows Capulets are touchier when they’re drunk.

“Fancy meeting you here, my cat prince,” he breathes after moments of contemplation, his voice barely audible.

The effect is immediate. Mercutio snaps upright and swings his head around to meet Tybalt’s self-satisfied gaze. He immediately leans his head back in despair and rage, groaning like a soul in purgatory.

“Must you always chase and torment me like some love-struck girl?” he snarls, just loud enough to be heard only by Tybalt. It may be late but there are still other patrons in the tavern making enough pleasant buzz to mask their conversation.

“That comparison sounds like you’re accusing me of being amorous with you, dear Capulet,” Tybalt purrs in response, leaning back against the bar and curling one edge of his mouth into a smile.

Mercutio narrows his eyes, trying to think of a way to end the conversation before it can devolve into a fight.

“Nothing else to say? You truly believe I’m in love with you? I would say you’re just left of center, dearest prince,” Tybalt shatters his thoughts with his effortlessly smooth voice, leaning forward and locking eyes with the Capulet, his pupils blown wide in the dim light.  

“Of course not. Your only love is to antagonize me,” Mercutio snaps back, frustrated at himself for drinking so much he can barely keep up with the Montague. His thoughts feel distant and detached from reality. He studies Tybalt in the half darkness of the tavern, his cloak drawn up high against his neck, his curly hair sticking close to his head, the lines of his throat illuminated by the lanterns on the walls. Tybalt’s grin is less threatening than usual, almost gentle in the way that Juliet will smile at him when she teases him. Mercutio imagines how Tybalt’s hands feel, imagining how often the Montague grabs onto his friends when the three cousins are together.

“Still a bit off-target, but I’ll let you believe what you want to, Capulet,” Tybalt says, more softly, almost kindly, (good God, when has Tybalt ever been kind?), still holding the gentle smile on his face. Mercutio can’t decide if he wants Tybalt to stay like that forever or to tell him to wipe it off his face. The illusion of kindness paradoxically suits and does not suit him. Tybalt leans closer.

“If you want to know a secret, I’ll tell you why I do so enjoy speaking and fighting with you,” he says, so close to Mercutio’s ear he can feel the Montague’s warm breath on the side of his face. He smiles and Mercutio can almost feel the movement because of how close they are, no more than a hair’s width apart.

“But of course, we would need somewhere more…private,” he says, casting his gaze around the tavern. “Somewhere with less…prying eyes and ears.” Tybalt pulls back and flashes a grin, standing and walking away from Mercutio, knowing without looking back that the Capulet will rise to the bait. And then when they’re outside, he’ll talk circles around the Capulet’s alcohol-addled brain until he leaves him spinning. Tybalt pulls open the door to the tavern and steps out into the cold night air.

Mercutio blinks and tries to make sense of what he just heard before he pushes himself up and follows Tybalt out the door. Tybalt weaves a short path into a close-by alleyway where he turns to face his adversary. Mercutio thinks Tybalt looks even more menacing and alluring in the moonlight, his face covered in shadows and the top of his curls illuminated by the moonlight.

Mercutio lets his feet carry him closer until they are only a few feet apart, their breaths visible in the cold air.

Tybalt has to tilt his head up slightly to make eye contact, setting his jaw as his mind works to find the best way to confuse the Capulet.

“Dearest Prince of Cats, you have to understand that in Verona, when an opportunity, be it for anything,”--he has always loved dancing with words--”One must take what one is presented no matter the risk or the cost if the benefit is plausible”--skirting the knife’s edge of someone’s limit until his jests become fists and blood--”And worth the amount of danger the thing has entwined with it, and, my darling Capulet,”--Tybalt pauses here to take a breath, closing his eyes--“You must see that--!”   
Tybalt is abruptly cut off when Mercutio reaches out to grab his collar and pulls him closer to his face. Tybalt’s hands instinctively fly to close around the Capulet’s wrists, his heart speeding its pace in his chest. They both stay perfectly still, Tybalt on his toes, Mercutio holding him up to eye level. He can feel his pulse elevate even further underneath Mercutio’s fists, his heart beating faster at the proximity. He could swear the air around them is charged somehow, crackling with the intensity of their souls so close to each other.

“Why do you insist upon never using my name? You refuse to call me by my given name and instead resort to pet names as if we know more about each other, rather than just the feel of each other’s knuckles,” he accuses. Mercutio knows he’s not thinking straight, knows he drank too much, but the alcohol in his veins only urges him on and fills him with confidence.

“Ah, but we do know more about each other. Have you already forgotten our younger years? I still remember them,” Tybalt says, grinning, his eyes darting around Mercutio’s face and the alleyway, looking for an escape. He looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin, Mercutio thinks.

Tybalt finally locks eyes with the Capulet again, fear, apprehension, interest, and guilt swirling through his expression. Mercutio leans his neck down to press his lips against Tybalt’s and feels the Montague tense his fingers around his wrists. Tybalt’s eyes widen as Mercutio’s close, the soft touch of his mouth the only thing Tybalt can comprehend in the moment.

It’s too gentle for them, Mercutio thinks, and presses his lips harder into his adversary’s, stepping forward to push Tybalt against the back alley wall. Tybalt lets out a soft noise somewhere between a moan and a sigh at the feeling of the stones against his shoulders that is lost somewhere in Mercutio’s mouth. He lets go of Mercutio’s wrists and lets his hands fall to his sides, his breath coming quicker as the Capulet lifts his hands to cup Tybalt’s face. He draws back a centimeter, no, a milimeter, his lips still brushing the Montague’s, his eyes still hooded.

“You speak too much just to confuse. Talk plainly, Tybalt,” he says. Silence follows, Tybalt’s eyes still blown wide. He brings his hands up to grip the front of the taller man’s (the world may call them men but in this moment of shed skin Tybalt knows that they are both demons) doublet.

“Mercutio,” is all he can manage, struck speechless for the first time in his life. He looks up to the stars, searching the night sky for something, for anything to guide him, to anchor him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for abandoning this fic......... again......... but hey it's a whole 2k of flashback, just what no one asked for i hope y'all like it

Tybalt’s eyes search the stars, sweeping across the expansive darkness, the stars twinkling silently, offering him no guidance as Mercutio mouths at his neck just underneath the storm in his mind. He tilts his chin up just a little more, what’s a little more give at this point? They’ve already damned themselves and each other tonight.

Mercutio feels Tybalt shift, exposing more of his neck, and he slides his mouth up, letting his lips caress Tybalt’s skin, biting softly at his pulse, hearing him gasp, sliding his hands up, one in Tybalt’s hair just behind his ear, cradling, holding, the other on the side of his neck already littered with bruises and bitemarks as he works on the unblemished part, slowly, slowly.

Tybalt exhales and closes his eyes, his throat working under Mercutio’s mouth. His hands still grip the Capulet’s doublet, his fists loosening slightly with each inhale.

Mercutio thumbs Tybalt’s pulse and runs his tongue over the Montague’s collar bone before pulling back. He tugs Tybalt’s head down to be against the side of his face and holds him there softly, his hand curling into the coldness of the Capulet’s cheek in the night air. Tybalt’s fingers slip from clenching the fabric of Mercutio’s doublet to drape around his neck. He pulls away marginally to tilt his head back, face to face with his adversary, opening his eyes, the alcohol burning in his veins fading to a simmer. Mercutio leans his head down, pressing his forehead against Tybalt’s. The night is so quiet, the only thing that exists is their breaths intermingling and the pressure of their hands on each other.

 

That’s not how it was, back then. Mercutio still remembers the smell of the brothel, the way the shadows curved around corners, the way every nook and every crevice was calling out for coins and services. He skirted every edge, dodging anyone he saw. He was only there for adventure.

 

Tybalt was there because he had no other place to hide. His enemies would never think to look here. He was plastered to the wall underneath the open window he dragged himself through, breathing hard from the mad scramble that it took to scale the brick wall. His fingers sting from digging into crevices to climb and his feet ache from jamming his toes into any hold he could find. He digs his fingers into his temples, his palms pressing into his eyes. Both are blackened, one so swollen it is almost closed, with matching bruises blossoming on his mouth and jaw. His head pounds and the blood from his nose is mostly dried and flakes at the touch.

He half chuckles under his breath, imagining the sight he must be if anyone saw him. He finally casts his gaze around the room he chose to hide in, and gets up off the floor.

He takes care not to let his blood get on the floor or the curtains.

There's a commotion outside in the hall and Tybalt stiffens. He looks around the room frantically for a hiding place and hits the floor to roll under the bed as quickly as possible. He stills just as the door swings open and only one pair of feet enter, something odd for a brothel.

The door is pushed shut and latched, and whoever it is (it must be a man, no woman, not even a whore, wears boots like those) walks to the bed and falls upon the coverlet. Tybalt can barely breathe, struggling to stay silent and escape detection. In the meantime, he prays to God to not be discovered. If he had a rosary, he would count the beads and say his Hail Marys. His pride would not survive if anyone saw him like this, especially if it was another Montague. He closes his eyes to pray harder.

Tybalt cracks open his eyes and holds his breath, trying to slowly shift his weight off his painful forearms. He has one out from under his chest and is working on freeing the other when the movement presses on a board that elicits a sound. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits, fear flooding his mind, his teeth clenching, tasting bile at the back of his throat.

 

Mercutio always liked melting into shadows. He weaves his way through the halls unnoticed, searching for an empty room until he sees one door ajar. He ducks inside, locking the door so he can be assured of privacy. He strides to the bed and falls upon it and closes his eyes, content, drifting pleasantly until he hears a board creak in the floor underneath where he lies. His eyes snap open, his mind immediately panicking because someone else is be in the room.

Mercutio feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The Capulet gets off the bed and crouches slowly, fearing a wild animal or another Capulet who would run home and tell his uncle where he hides.

He ducks his head and sees a teen he doesn’t recognise under the bed, the kid’s arms obscuring his face and his hands entwined in his dark curls. He's shaking, ever so slightly. Mercutio casts around in his mind for something to say and licks his lips unconsciously.

"I'm sorry, I believe I intruded on your room, sir," he says, half smiling at his own joke, and the smile drops into a frown as he watches as the cords of muscle in the person's shoulders tighten. He waits for a response, wondering if the boy's catatonic from fear or stress. Mercutio reaches out and grips the boy's shoulder and the person turns to face him, still under the bed.

Mercutio would haves flinched at the sight of how thoroughly beaten Tybalt's face is if he had not seen such things a thousand times over. The Montague has been fighting, no doubt with Mercutio's kin. Mercurio’s lip curls in distaste, finding that he doesn't like the idea of anyone's hands on Tybalt but his own. The Montague is his mortal enemy, no one else's.

He sticks his hand out to Tybalt, offering an unspoken truce for the moment. Tybalt glares at him like he expects a brawl. Mercutio thinks he looks exhausted underneath the hostility in his bruised features.

 

Tybalt wants to sink into the ground. His worst enemy, seeing him like this. A Capulet, seeing a Montague beaten and even worse, hiding. Tybalt blood roars for him to fight his adversary here and now, just to force Mercutio to stay silent about this. He moves his glare from the Capulet’s carefully neutral face and sets it instead on the proffered hand as if it was a poisonous snake. Mercutio huffs and reaches closer to grab Tybalt’s bicep and pulls him out from under the bed, the Montague trying to shake his hand off.

He makes the Montague face him, one hand still circling Tybalt’s upper arm. Tybalt jerks his arm again, trying to get the other teen to release his grip, but Mercutio just holds tighter, firmly ignoring the movement. Tybalt peels his split lips back into a soundless snarl and Mercutio sees the blood staining his gums and teeth. It uncurls a ribbon of pity in Mercutio’s chest, a feeling he’s not used to. It is especially odd to feel this way for an enemy he has dueled many times over. It’s strange, seeing Tybalt as a human, being close when they do not have intent to maim (he never believed that the Montague ever wanted to actually kill him; their games and fights were much too entertaining to the often verbose teen). The moment is strangely quiet and soft, as if the air around them is a cushion.

Mercutio brings his hand up to touch the bruise coloring the side of Tybalt’s mouth and the Montague shoves his hand away, his eyes shining defiantly, filled with contempt. Tybalt frowns, his lips trembling slightly but he doesn't care. Anything to show his displeasure.

"Who were you fighting?" Mercutio's question almost startles Tybalt with how sudden and unexpected it is. He quickly regroups his composure and scowls, his arms crossed against his chest.

"Why do you care, Capulet? So you can brag to your cousins once you throw me out the window?” Tybalt asks, trying to add bite and vigor to his words and failing as they come out tired and careless in the way they fall from his bloody lips. Mercutio winces at the words anyway, guilt stealing across his features and Tybalt feels a bizarre sense of satisfaction mixed with bitter regret. He hunches in on himself, trying to fold in as much as possible and obscure himself from view.

Mercutio watches the Montague trying to hide in plain sight and escape into himself after his accusatory outburst. He clears his throat in the sudden absence of sound and Tybalt looks up to fix him with a glare, a dare to speak. Mercutio shifts to sit next to the Montague, leaning his shoulder against the side of the bed’s cheap mattress. Tybalt watches him from the corner of his eye, wary of his adversary, his jaw set, whether in pain or suspicion Mercutio cannot be sure.

Mercutio imagines the picture that the pair of them make. Tybalt Montague, bruised, battered, and bleeding, the boy who spits fire pouting like a four year old, and next to him, Mercutio Capulet, the boy that claws and stabs anything in his way, the one that you only need to point in a direction and he will rampage across the world. Mercutio’s lips twist bizarrely at the image in his mind. He laughs to himself, closing his eyes, caught in a strange moment of sadness and amusement.

Tybalt’s head snaps to the left at the sound of the other boy laughing. Tybalt wants to grasp him by the shoulders and shake him and demand why he laughing. He wants to scream, helplessness and confused anger bubbling in his chest. Instead, he watches Mercutio laugh. He studies the Capulet’s lips, his eyelashes, the way his shoulders shake back and forth with his mirth. He wonders when Mercutio lost this part of him. Mercutio laughs for centuries, until he comes down and opens his eyes to and looks to his right, meeting blackened eyes intently watching him.

“Why do you do this?” It is Mercutio’s turn to be surprised. Tybalt stares at him with all the intensity his exhausted form can muster, determined to know the answer. The Capulet stays silent, unsure of the answer himself.

“Why would you not leave me to rot? Why not finish what your kin started?” Tybalt sounds like he is trying to spit malice, but all that comes out is quiet confusion and despair. Mercutio closes his eyes.

“In truth, I do not know.”

“You are false to me.”

“I am never false to you, Tybalt. To my parents, to strangers, to myself, but never to you.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear. Now you must as well.”

“I am false to too many things to ever remember to speak the truth to any one man.”

“A promise for nothing does not keep, Tybalt. A promise for a promise binds the other.”

“I swear to try. I swear I am not false to you now.”

“It is enough.”

 

The oath was not forgotten, and yet they never spoke of it again. They stayed at the brothel until sunrise, until Tybalt climbed back out the window and Mercutio stole out the door as the sun stretched her bands of light across the horizon. They tried to outrun her, but her soft strands reached everything and washed away the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Tybalt opens his eyes and sucks in a breath as Mercutio bites at his lips, the Capulet’s hands fisting in his hair and tugging insistently, demanding attention. He snaps out of his reverie and pulls away for a split second, catching a startled look on Mercutio’s face. Guilt crowds into Tybalt’s chest at the sight, creating a weight that feels as though it could drag him to hell, as he tightens his arms around Mercutio’s neck.

He leans in again, pulling the Capulet into himself and pressing their bodies closer, trying to breach the gap that words cannot fill. He tries to be gentle, for his adversary’s sake, his words have always cut like knives, his tongue is made of sharp metal, but he forgets, he forgets that Mercutio has won more fights than he has, killed more than he has, bloodied his fists more than he has. The violence roaring between them translates into the connection of this, their mouths, their hands, their bodies.

Mercutio kisses Tybalt with a full-on assault; the latter’s mind grows heavy and leaden with desire from the attention he receives. Mercutio is aflame, he is fire itself, and Tybalt is no mere kindling, but an entire forest to be devoured, wind whipping through the trees and fanning the flames licking at Tybalt’s heels. They scrabble at each other, desperate in this sudden violent intimacy, blunt nails raking through hair and clothing, sliding under clothes and digging into skin as best they can, creating their own anchors on reality. They are two monsters melting together, crushing closer and closer until they can become one being. Mercutio wedges a leg between Tybalt’s, shoving the smaller man harder into the wall behind him, caging him in his arms, clutching at the soft skin of his waist under his shirt, kissing him as if he could eat him whole. Tybalt lets out sound after sound of pleasure, soft gasps and whispers of moans escaping his throat and into Mercutio’s mouth, desperate for more, more, he is greedy and heady and cannot comprehend anything but the other’s touches and the heat crackling between their chests.

Mercutio pulls away for a second to press their foreheads together, panting, yet never satisfied. The taste of his childhood friend? enemy? lingers on his tongue and he breathes in Tybalt’s scent, trying to imprint the sensations on his mind so he may never forget them.

His hands slide out from under Tybalt’s rucked up shirt to fumble with the buttons on his doublet as the Montague pulls him back in for another kiss that feels like his soul is being grabbed ahold of. As they meet each other, Tybalt catches Mercutio’s hands as they move to unbutton his shirt. He breaks away to shake his head and places one of the Capulet’s hands back on his cheek, trying not to say anything. He doesn’t want to break the absence of words, but he has to deter Mercutio from moving too fast in an alleyway, even though it is the middle of the night and not another soul is both awake and nearby. He kisses the taller man softly in the wake of his confusion and disappointment, trying to pull him in again.

It ends again, too soon, too fast for either of them to like. Tybalt seems nervous, Mercutio almost confused. They pull away, further this time, their bodies no longer touching from shoulder to knee. The Montague looks down, the Capulet looks to his left. Mercutio clears his throat and takes a few steps toward the street, Tybalt follows after him and grabs a fistful of the back of his adversary’s shirt, his face contorting into something desperate, something anxious. Mercutio turns and stares back at him.

“When will our paths cross again?” Tybalt looks like he might say something else, but decides against it. It reminds Mercutio oddly of an interaction they had when much younger, as children, barely eight years old.

 

Mercutio had had enough. He’s had enough of this kid laughing and saying words bigger than he is. And so what if he’s a kid too? He’s bigger than the Montague, at least. Speaking of, the boy in question stands about five meters from Mercutio, arms folded across his chest, his face as smug looking as smug as he can muster, no doubt waiting for a response. Mercutio curls his hands to fists at his sides and makes a decision he’s sure will make his father proud.

In the seconds that he runs toward Tybalt, he has enough time to register the surprise on his face and how he puts his hands up as if that could stop the Capulet. He tackles his enemy to the ground full force on the cobblestones, knocking them both to the ground. They grapple with each other, rolling on the dirt and stones, kicking and scratching and letting out muffled sounds of frustration.

“Take it back!” Mercutio yells as he pulls at Tybalt’s hair, watching his face contort in pain and anger. He’s thrown off the kid’s stomach as the Montague launches himself upward abruptly.

“Never, scoundrel! Down with Capulets! All their fathers are inebriates and their mothers are invertebrates!” Tybalt shouts back, the words flying over Mercutio’s head. It doesn’t matter if his enemy understands the words, all that really matters to Tybalt is that Mercutio knows he’s being insulted. He manages a few punches until Mercutio kicks him hard in the stomach. He rolls off of Mercutio and jumps up, ready to fight. He can feel blood trickling from his nose and his stomach hurts, but he smiles big at Mercutio as he gets off the ground anyways.

“Too scared to attack again, coward? I’ll give you worse than I got!” Mercutio barely looks scathed, he is a bit bigger and stronger than Tybalt after all, but he’s got words and trickery on his side. He tries to dodge Mercutio’s punch and steps right into someone much taller than either of them. He looks up and his blood runs cold.

“Mercutio!” The man’s voice booms, and Tybalt sees his arch nemesis suppress a flinch. Vittorio Capulet fixes Tybalt with a glare before turning his attention back to his son.

“Why are you with this?” The man (monster, Tybalt thinks) makes a vague gesture toward Tybalt. Mercutio looks down at his scuffed shoes.

“We were fighting, sir.” His normally brash, loud voice is taken over by a soft murmur, and Tybalt just finds himself more and more confused, looking back between his enemy and his father. Vittorio turns his gaze back to Tybalt, who huffs and crosses his arms. He holds his head high and closes his eyes defiantly until he hears the Lord step away from him to Mercutio.

“Good job, my boy. You have barely a scratch on you. You’re getting stronger every day and putting it to good use. Maybe you’ll give him a black eye next time.” Tybalt cracks open one eye at that to see Mercutio trailing after his father toward the Capulet mansion.

He waves until he gets the kid’s attention and mouths ‘See you tomorrow’ and grins as big as he can so he’ll see it. Mercutio doesn’t respond and turns away to keep walking.

Tybalt lowers his hand and tries not to be discouraged. There’ll be plenty of time for fighting tomorrow.

 

Standing in the alley, it’s as if Mercutio is a child again, and Tybalt is waving at him hopefully as he retreats from their fistfight. Except they’re men, they’re men and they’re slipping and not too far from falling and Mercutio doesn’t think he would climb back up if he could.

Tybalt looks at him like he’s the sun and he’s afraid he might scorch himself if he touches him with more than a few fingers on his sleeve.

“Please. Dear prince, dear Mercutio, please tell me if I will see you again,” Tybalt says, his voice barely above a whisper, the request more akin to a prayer than a demand. Mercutio reaches out blindly and curls his fingers around Tybalt’s.

“I will see you again, fear not, dear Tybalt.” He presses a kiss to the man’s knuckles (it is as if they are just boys again, fumbling for punches, every word feels like a knife to the chest) and drops his hand.

He leaves the alley and doesn’t pause to look back.

Tybalt leaves once he’s out of sight, looking up toward the stars. 


	10. Chapter 10

Tybalt spends the rest of the night in a daze, barely managing to slip home without being seen or heard. He finds himself ghosting his fingers over his throat and lips, his thoughts tumbling through image after image of Mercutio, Mercutio, Mercutio, nothing but the Capulet, so close, so dear, so real and tangible. He chases the memories and basks in them as they roll through his mind, each one more embellished than the last. Tybalt sheds his cloak and lets it drop to the floor as the door to his room shuts softly behind him. He crosses the room and catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror propped up on his bureau. He narrows his eyes and walks closer, dark red marks easily visible on his neck. He stares in the mirror, half frustrated, the other half a feeling he can barely describe.

His hair is mussed up beyond saving from Mercutio’s fingers, his lips swollen, red, red outlines of teeth and dark wine-colored bruises cover his throat. He skims his fingers over the marks, watching his reflection do the same and drops his hand, tugging off his doublet and kicking off his boots. His shirt follows them to the ground, revealing fading scratches from Mercutio’s nails on his slim waist, and he frowns, unsure how he feels. It’s a strange mixture of anger, confusion, and still that odd bubbling feeling in his chest he can’t place. He turns away from the mirror and heads to bed instead, crawling under the covers and resting his hand back over his throat.

 

Mercutio’s veins race with energy, his head is a whirlwind and his feet barely touch the ground. He wanders Verona in the early morning, wondering where Tybalt went, half hoping they’ll run into each other and waste time together again. He itches for an excuse to go back and find Tybalt, but he already said goodbye, and he is a man of his word. He decides to sneak back into his uncle’s house instead. He is barely in the door when he sees a half asleep Juliet sneaking into the kitchen. They lock eyes as he closes the door and she rushes over to him on her tiptoes.

“Where have you been, cousin?” She says, much too loud in a quiet house. Mercutio shushes her and draws her into the kitchen. She takes an apple and sits on the counter. She stares at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Well?” She prompts, softer this time, wary of her sleeping parents, after a length of silence. Mercutio sighs, knowing he’ll have to tell her the truth, or at least a part. Juliet has gotten too good at reading him to know when he’s lying.

“I was at a tavern, dearest cousin,” he says, determined to stay as vague as possible. He fixes his gaze past his sweet young cousin’s pout.

“Surely you did more than that, Mercutio. That sounds like such a boring night. And you don’t usually stay out so late,” Juliet’s doe eyes are scrutinising him, looking for signs of lying. He sighs, rolling his eyes, looking for a way out. He stares back, unwilling to yield, the secret is his to keep.

“I simply lost track of time and once the tavern closed I walked around Verona until I found myself back home,” he insists, knowing that his childish cousin will undoubtedly resent him for not telling her the whole truth.

Juliet gives him one last glare and hops off the counter before leaving the kitchen. Mercutio breathes a sigh of relief, leaning against the wall. His thoughts drift back to the way Tybalt looked in the barest light given by the stars and moon. The Montague appeared almost dreamlike, his throat marred by Mercutio’s teeth. The memory stirs a feeling in the Capulet’s ribs, almost like envy, but more soft, less sharp than how envy and jealousy bite at one’s chest. He is tugged out of his mind by the chime of a church bell. He slips out of the kitchen and ascends the stair to his room, trying to will himself not to run out into the night to find Tybalt.

 

Tybalt avoids him. Mercutio is sure of it. He’s seen nothing of the Montague in a week since that night. He is too proud to admit to himself that he’s put out by the absence of the brash Montague, but he is. He knows he is. He misses the soft feel of the Montague’s skin and the way he could twine his curls into his fists. He does his best to hide it, spending time with his cousin and some of his uncle’s servants instead. But Mercutio cannot fill the space in his chest that Tybalt wedged himself into.

 

Mercutio avoids him. Tybalt is sure of it. He’s seen neither hide nor tail of the Prince of Cats since their fateful night time encounter. He pines, he does. He’ll admit it to none but himself. He misses the Capulet’s bruising force and the feeling of teeth scraping along the veins on his neck. He withdraws from his dear cousins, spending more time out, trying to will a meeting with the Capulet. His fellow Montagues catch up with him and pull him back into their orbits, distracting him when they speak, but as soon as silence falls, Tybalt falls back into a spiral of thoughts around Mercutio, Mercutio, Mercutio, nothing but Mercutio.

 

They slip past each other, missing one another by mere minutes or seconds. A lover’s tragedy.

At least it doesn’t last long.

 

It is night once again. Tybalt is with Romeo and Benvolio, his cousins tugging him further and further down the road, his hands captured in each of theirs, his eyes covered by a strip of fabric no doubt ripped crudely from one of their shirts. He makes an effort to laugh and smile at their mischief, he knows that whatever they are doing it is in good humor. He’s been melancholy and sullen all week, missing Mercutio, and refusing to tell them anything. He can hear distant music, the laughter and footsteps of more than just himself and his cousins. They stop abruptly, and he runs into one of them, Benvolio, judging by the voice.

“So eager, cousin?” It says. The blindfold is pulled from Tybalt’s eyes and he blinks a few times, adjusting to the low light of torches and lanterns outside the formidable Capulet mansion made up to look like an inviting place of welcome rather than the spider’s web or lion’s den that it is. He frowns at the people sweeping into the doors from a distance and turns his attention back to Benvolio and Romeo, who share matching grins and masks. Before he can ask, or declare that he is having none of their scheme, they bound forward, Romeo shoving a mask into his hand, Benvolio grasping his shoulder and steering him toward the door several dozen meters away.

“You need to cheer up, cousin,” Benvolio says, pointedly not looking at the glare on Tybalt’s face. “You used to jump at the idea of antagonizing the Capulets. You can’t have become bored with this fun so soon!” Tybalt grimaces in response, and ties his mask in place. He forces his face into a more positive expression and slings an arm around Romeo’s shoulders.

“I have not forgotten the fun. I just did not think you two would be so reckless to walk straight into the mouth of the tiger,” he says. He can feel his heart beat faster at the thought of seeing Mercutio again, but the idea of his cousins wreaking havoc in the Capulet house makes him almost nervous. What if Mercutio blames him for his cousins’ actions? What will they do? What if they see him with Mercutio?

Tybalt’s thoughts distract him until the three of them are through the door. Romeo squeezes his shoulder and flashes him a smile, Benvolio kisses his cheek and then they are both gone. He can see Romeo darting toward the dance floor, Benvolio slips between pillars. Tybalt glaces around, convincing himself he is not looking for Mercutio, before stepping into a wall, back into a shadow of one of the central pillars. He eventually steals a glass of wine someone put down and forgot about, downing the whole thing and setting off a pleasant buzz in his head. Perhaps if he drinks more, he’ll enjoy this party. He can tell Romeo already is, he’s holding the hand of some lady, probably a Capulet, he mind supplies, but he cannot muster any malice or jealousy, only a faint sense of longing for his prince of cats. He stares into the red of the wine, wondering how the Capulets will react when they realize there are intruders at their festival.

 

Juliet is in Mercutio’s room, after having begged him to let her chose what he will wear for the party tonight. She eagerly threw open the door to his closet over an hour ago and started pulling out clothes, and now he is still sitting on his bed, watching her mutter and hold waistcoats up to different shirts. Finally, finally, after what seems like hours of meaningless deliberation she presses an outfit into his hands and leaves him in peace to dress. He can hear musicians tuning their instruments downstairs, a precursor to the torture about to come. Mercutio frowns at his reflection in the mirror, even if Juliet does have a good eye for colors. Hours of being sociable and biting his tongue until he finds the right moment to slip away. He squares his shoulders and walks outside to escort Juliet down the stairs. She’s beaming and shaking with excitement. He tries to muster at least a half-smile in response. She slips her arm into his even when he fails.

 

Tybalt is on his fourth stolen glass of wine and just on the edge of pleasantly drunk when he sees Mercutio across the room. He chokes on the drink at the sight, the Capulet, alone, (How could he be so handsome and alone? Surely anyone with half a brain and functioning eyes would jump hurdles just to stand near such a pretty face, Tybalt thinks) in a muted red shirt and silver waistcoat. He looks better than Tybalt has ever seen, and his heart is in his mouth before even five seconds have passed. He forces himself to look away just as Mercutio’s head begins to turn in his direction, and the Montague slips back into the shadows. Does he dare approach the Capulet? In such crowded circumstances? Mercutio is known to be fiery and aggressive, which sends many would-be acquaintances running the other way. In his brain, he knows he should wait until he’s sobered a bit before approaching the man, but his feet carry him around the dance floor toward his prince of cats in a steady, for being rather quite tipsy, pace.

 

Mercutio entertains Juliet between songs until she gains enough courage to detach herself from his hip and take the dance floor by storm. He sighs, finally relieved to be able to just observe objectively and stop pretending to enjoy himself. The Capulet turns his head, scanning the dance floor, just in time to catch a glimpse of a familiar set of fingers curled around a half-empty wine glass and a familiar set of shoulders turning away from view. The figure’s face is covered by a mask, their hair shrouded by a hood, but Mercutio could not mistake the silhouette. He turns again, looking for the man, but he has disappeared into the darkness on the fringes of the dance floor across the hall. In his search, he sees another man with a mask similar to the figures. Another slight turn of his head, and another man is wearing another similar mask. He mind slots the pieces into place. Tybalt and his friends are here. To what purpose, he knows not. To wreak havoc? For boasting privileges to other Montagues? To seduce Capulet women? To---?

He cannot finish the last thought, the warm side of someone’s body presses into him, demanding all his attention. Mercutio grinds his teeth in irritation, takes his eyes off the Montague in his vision and turns to---Oh, it is him. It is Tybalt, he is sure of it. The man’s hood is down and it is Tybalt’s hair, Tybalt’s dark skin in the torchlight, Tybalt’s eyes shining behind the mask, Tybalt’s arm pressing into his, Tybalt, Tybalt, Tybalt, his mind and skin and heart sing all together in harmony. He crushes the whirlwind of joy in his chest and bares his teeth in defense.

“Montague,” he hisses, and a smile curls around one of the corners of the masked man’s mouth.

“Dearest Capulet,” the man replies, still smiling. His cheeks are flushed and his hand comes up to press Mercutio’s arm, fondly. Mercutio is lost and drowning and he pulls Tybalt further back into the darkness of the edge of the room.

“You endanger not only yourself, but your friends coming here, Montague,” he says, and he means to tell him to leave, he does, but Tybalt cuts him off with a kiss pressed to his lips. He tastes like wine and all the good things in the world, Mercutio thinks. They break apart, Tybalt’s hands splayed on Mercutio’s chest.

“Do you have a walled garden we could stroll in, arm in arm like lovers of old? Or a tower where we could escape to and lock ourselves in? Tell me, Mercutio, for I will not wait for long,” Tybalt whispers, his eyes darting over the Capulet’s face, searching for an answer. Mercutio takes the Montague’s hands in his and tugs him out of the room, a parody of their respective cousins bringing them each to the party.

The two weave through corridor after corridor and door after door until they are outside in a garden complete with paths, a fountain, flowers upon flowers, and trees. The moon is half full, its light casting a soft glow over everything. The music from the party flows gently from the house, muted and sweet.

Mercutio pulls Tybalt into his body, wrapping one arm around the Montague’s waist, the other reaching to untie his mask. The ribbon slides easily, and the visor is thrown the the ground so Mercutio can cup the smaller man’s cheek. Tybalt’s hands rest on the Capulet’s shoulders, so soft and practically demure that he barely feels them. He leans into Tybalt, and finds his mouth with his own.

The kiss is sweet, but they are both impatient creatures, they press closer and begin devouring each other, teeth and tongues and gripping hands in constant motion. Tybalt pushes Mercutio backwards, walking him toward a bench until his knees hit the marble and he takes the cue to sit. The Montague settles into his lap, his legs on either side of Mercutio’s hips, moving his whole body in small circles, reveling in the little possessive sounds the Capulet is making. Their hands rake over each other’s bodies, leaving red trails in their wake and creating shiver after shiver. Tybalt has to lean his head back for air, his chest heaving slightly as he feels the cool night air against his heated skin. Mercutio moves forward to press his face into the juncture of Tybalt’s neck and shoulder, laving his tongue along the skin he finds and lavishing bites everywhere he can reach. Tybalt’s hands find Mercutio’s hair and fist in the locks there, tugging insistently until the Capulet turns his attention back to his lips. Mercutio’s hands drift to the Montague’s thighs, digging his fingers into the fabric of his pants, setting off a pattern of shivers that reverberate through all of Tybalt. He repeats this, enjoying the smaller man’s reactions until Tybalt curls his hands over Mercutio’s wrists and he stills.

“Perhaps--” he is panting, and it should not make Mercutio’s blood race as it does, it should not make him heady and full of pride and desire and possessiveness, “Perhaps we should move to a bedchamber, as here--” Mercutio nods before he can even finish, standing with Tybalt still on his lap. The Montague lets out a noise halfway between a yelp and a gasp, and wraps his arms and legs around Mercutio to keep from tumbling to the ground. The Capulet grins in apology to Tybalt’s glare, his hands supporting Tybalt’s thighs, his head pounding with love, and lust, and the undeniable urge to keep Tybalt with him forever. The Montague scoffs and lets go of Mercutio to stand on his own two feet, a blush high in his cheeks.

They are in Mercutio’s bedchamber, the door locked, random items of clothing strewn across the floor. Tybalt is atop Mercutio in the bed, working determinedly at the buttons of his shirt, dipping down every few seconds for a kiss, whether pressed to the skin of the Capulet’s chest or his lips. Soon, they shed the rest of their second skins and move together, Tybalt underneath Mercutio, pulling him down for kiss after kiss, whispering soft desperate words in the form of begs for more, dear prince, more, touch me, anywhere, anywhere, yes, please, oh please, his hands curling around the sheets near his head. Mercutio’s hand is in his hair, pulling just the way he likes, the other curled around his throat, pressing and releasing over and over, making black spots appear in his vision as he gasps and whines and listens to the Capulet over him moan and pant and whisper praise after praise, for his body, his mind, his hands, treating him like an angel. (Tybalt wants to believe him, for when he cracks his eyes open, Mercutio looks like there is a halo of light surrounding his head. Perhaps his prince sees the same looking at him. But he knows that demons are so dark that anything near them looks light by comparison. And this he fears.)

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for those w/ emetophobia there's one (1) mention of throwing up, nothing graphic  
> also violence and some low key internalized homophobia

Mercutio wakes to the soft sound of breathing and gentle light coming through the curtains covering the windows. He turns his head to the left to see a mess of curls and bare shoulders peeking out of the coverlet. The Capulet turns onto his side and slides an arm around Tybalt’s waist, curling around the narrow body in front of him and drawing the two of them closer together, his chest pressing against Tybalt’s back. The smaller man stirs at that; Mercutio can see his head lift slightly off the pillow and his breathing becomes less noticeable.    
Tybalt shifts in Mercutio’s arms and stretches, pressing back into the body behind him. Mercutio huffs at the teasing feel of Tybalt’s skin against his and drags his teeth across the bruised skin on the smaller man’s neck, watching him shiver and digging his fingers into the curve of the Montague’s waist.    
Tybalt turns to face him, his pretty eyes half-closed with sleep, and presses closer to Mercutio, a grin starting to tug at the sides of his mouth as he loops an arm around his neck. He looks wrecked, Mercutio thinks, and it nearly takes his breath away. Tybalt sports lovebites and bruises spilling from his jaw all the way to his collar bones, some from Mercutio’s teeth and others from his hands where they gripped so tight he feared Tybalt would pull them off, but instead he just gasped out to press harder. The Montague looks so content, languid and satisfied here in Mercutio’s bed. The way he’s smiling jerks at something in his chest, that feeling he can’t describe, and he fists a hand in Tybalt’s hair, pulling until his throat is bared, the tendons under his skin straining under Mercutio’s breath. He hesitates there, hovering just over the abused skin and exhaling on the bruises. Tybalt lets out a full-body shiver, one hand coming to the back of Mercutio’s head and pushing him forward to put his lips on the Montague’s neck. He obliges, still holding a fistful of Tybalt’s hair as if they are reins. He drags his free hand down Tybalt’s chest to rest on his hip and the Montague lets a moan escape his throat.    
“So desperate already?” Mercutio says, punctuating the phrase with a soft bite.    
“Do you not desire me in return?” Tybalt asks, pulling the Capulet’s head up to kiss him. This kiss has none of the urgency of the night, it’s gentle and sweet, a contrast to the two men and their personalities. Tybalt breathes soft entreatments into Mercutio’s mouth and he nods in return, trying to keep their mouth connected as he does, trying to pull Tybalt closer into his body.    
Last night, Tybalt would’ve called what they did fucking; frenzied, passionate, ecstatic sex, pushing each other to the brink. This morning is the complete opposite. Mercutio lets Tybalt shift and roll to ride him with the coverlet pooled around his strong thighs, his hips undulating in soft circles. He sweeps his hands over Tybalt’s skin, darker than his own, leaning up every now and again to kiss and bite at his skin. He watches the way Tybalt bites his lip in concentration, how his hands twine in the sheets on either side of his legs, how he practically glows afterwards, when he lays his head on Mercutio’s chest.    
Mercutio cards his hands through Tybalt’s hair, marvelling at how his curls flop back into place, enjoying the lazy atmosphere in the room. The feelings of pleasure creates a haze in the air, almost as tangible as the man on top of Mercutio. He wants to roll them over and kiss Tybalt all over and be inside him again, but he lets them both rest, contenting himself with running his hands all over the Montague and kissing everywhere he can reach.    
  
Time slides by, unnoticed until Tybalt slips off of Mercutio’s chest and out of bed. He picks his clothes off the floor where they are strewn carelessly from their hurry last night and dresses slowly, aware of the Capulet’s eyes following his movements, drinking in his bare skin, a reminder of how intently he watched Tybalt while they had sex. The thought moves something in Tybalt, perhaps vanity? or affection? perhaps something else, but it is no matter. He opens Mercutio’s window to climb out of and is interrupted by the voice he has known for so long.   
“You would leave me here without even a goodbye kiss?” His former enemy asks, trying to sound teasing but it comes out almost adoringly, a mockery of what they’re playing at. Tybalt is unsure where the line between lust and love has blurred between them, but he’ll keep dancing this knife’s edge until one of them slips.    
He climbs down and walks back to the bed, leaning down to press their lips together again, but Mercutio’s hands are too quick to fist in his shirt and they pull him back into the bed, Mercutio rolling on top of him, kissing lazily between his collar bones. Tybalt lets out a groan of fake indignation, settling his hands on the other man’s shoulders.   
“You delay me so long I’ll end up staying another night,” he complains lightly as the Capulet sucks the messy skin on his neck. Mercutio meets his eyes.   
“How did you know that was my plan?” He responds, mischief coloring his words. Tybalt pushes on his shoulders, exasperated.    
“There will be those looking for me. I do socialize, unlike some people who prefer to stay reclusive until the opportunity for sex comes up,” he drawls while Mercutio lavishes affection over the bruises on his neck and jaw.   
“You insult me, Montague,” Mercutio says, drawing his hands up to loosen the shirt Tybalt just put on. The smaller man’s head drops back down onto the pillow, and Mercutio thinks he’s won buy   
Tybalt sighs and prys Mercutio’s hands off of his chest, sliding out of the bed. Mercutio sits up in his wake.

“Tybalt, come back. You needn’t leave so soon.” He rubs at his eyes as Tybalt pulls open his balcony doors and light floods into the room. 

“Ah, but I must, dear cat prince,” Tybalt says, his hands already on the balcony perimeter. He hoists one leg up and over the stone railing as Mercutio finally gets out of bed and follows him. Tybalt is on the other side, clinging to the stones as Mercutio leans over the boundary to kiss him gently.

“A parting gift, who knows when our paths will cross again?” He justifies it to himself, straightening up and looking down at the garden below. A lone figure darts through the benches and plants. He backtracks the interloper’s path with his eyes as Tybalt descends, following it to Juliet’s balcony, where she stands, staring into the distance.  _ Romeo. _ The thought unfolds in Mercutio’s head, stinging like alcohol in a wound. His fists tighten reflexively. 

He looks down again and Tybalt is the one running now, scaling the perimeter wall of his uncle’s mansion. His blood boils, no longer held soft and still by the Montague’s presence. 

He turns and slams the balcony doors shut, pulling on clothes. Juliet has some answers for him.

 

Tybalt meets Romeo in the streets of Verona, both of them panting like mad men. They both speak too quickly, overlapping in eagerness.

“Cousin, where did--”

“I missed you so much last night you disappeared too--”

“I must confess I happened to see--”

“I spent the night--”

“I just have found myself in a very--”

“A Capulet?”

“A Capulet. A Capulet?”

“A Capulet.”

“Was she beautiful?” Tybalt laughs at that, throwing his head back in his usual barking, harsh manner. Romeo hasn’t seen him like this since before his still unexplained disappearance.

“Was yours?”

“More picturesque than all the goddesses.”

“I'm sure your lover’s eyes make up more lies than you know.”

They both laugh even as they both know they are dead men if anyone else finds out. 

 

Mercutio seethes. Juliet could barely even create a lie for him when he asked. She pleaded and begged and beseeched for him not to do anything rash, that they were in love and Romeo was no idiot, that they would leave Verona and be married properly. He can taste blood in his mouth as he sheathes his rapier. He doesn’t think of Tybalt. Romeo and Juliet are different. They cannot marry, the two houses would never agree to it. Romeo trying to woo his cousin is a blight on the Capulet name, a disgrace. She’s too young to know the consequence of her actions. His relationship with Tybalt is different. It’s nothing. It’s not like they’ll elope. Someday Mercutio will marry someone of status that his uncle likes and… He can’t finish the thought. He vomits and leaves the house. 

 

Tybalt traipses around Verona with his cousins, arm in arm. They reach an open space when Mercutio comes stalking toward them, clearly filled with ire and malice.

Tybalt pushes forward to confront him, grinning, always grinning.

“How are you today, dear prince of cats? Any new subjects? Looking for some rats to chase?”

“Out of my way. I came to duel Romeo and none else.” Every word is bitten out, grinded between his teeth. They sputter and flame where they fall. 

“Really? I’m hurt. How could you turn your anger and attentions from me, your favorite antagonist?” Tybalt tries to reach out to touch Mercutio but he flinches backward, his movements jagged. 

“Just give me Romeo. He must pay for his transgressions.” 

Romeo tries to diffuse the situation.

“Dear Mercutio, I cannot fight you. I love you, for reasons you cannot understand as of yet. Please, be satisfied. I mean you no harm or slight.” Mercutio nearly growls at that.

“Draw your weapon, or I’ll be forced to kill you unarmed.”

“No, Capulet.” Romeo is too good for all of this.

Tybalt interjects himself between them, drawing his own rapier. 

“I’ll take his place. I’ll be his champion.” Turning, Tybalt winks at Romeo. “Stand back, dear cousin, I shall fight in your stead and defeat the Capulet beast.”

He turns back to face Mercutio, shifting into a fencing stance. 

“Strike, if you are brave enough, dear prince.” 

Steel clangs against steel as Romeo tries to pull Tybalt away, dodging blades and beseeching the two men. 

“Please, I beg of you both! End this brawl! We need not violence to get to our ends--” Tybalt shoves him bodily out of the way of a thrust, laughing. 

“We need it not but it adds such a thrill to conflict, cousin. Now kindly, stay out of my way.”

Mercutio duels with a ferocity, anger licking up his limbs and kindling flames in his soul. He has to beat Tybalt. Just beat him. He can’t kill him again. Tybalt is too skilled to be slain in a fair fight.

Romeo ruins it all. He jumps between them again and Mercutio thrusts blindly, trying to hit the fiend in the back but his rapier slips under the Montague’s arm and he hears a choke that decidedly does not belong to Juliet’s fiance. 

When Tybalt looks down at the sword in his side, nothing comes out of his mouth. Even his hyperactive brain is silent.  

He locks eyes with Mercutio, horror painted on the man’s face, as his hands tremble on the sword hilt.

It was Romeo’s fault. Romeo stares at the bloodstain spreading on his cousin’s shirt and doublet. Benvolio is frozen in the street, a witness. 

Tybalt crumples like a puppet whose strings were cut. It is strangely silent as Mercutio runs, blood pounding in his head. 

A solitary raven caws and he doesn’t look back.


End file.
